


the natural progression (of our love)

by MQ1693



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Hank's POV, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Pacifist Best Ending, Recovery, Rimming, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Self-Lubrication, Suicide Attempt, Therapy, Touch-Starved, no beta we die like men, sex with feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 15:19:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17603807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MQ1693/pseuds/MQ1693
Summary: A study of Hank's and Connor's relationship from the night of the revolution until they are a established couple, how they deal with each other, with their love, and Hank's depression.





	the natural progression (of our love)

**Author's Note:**

> This my entry for the HankCon BigBang of 2018! I got partnered with the lovely [muttthecowcat](https://twitter.com/cowcatandsilver) who did a beautiful [acrylic](https://twitter.com/cowcatandsilver/status/1090753570172030976) piece for the fic ♥ Go give her some love!

Connor’s eyes shine in the bright white light of the sublevels of CyberLife tower and Hank wonders how he ever mistook him for someone else, how he’d missed the plethora of little details that make him _him._

He’d been foolish, convinced by a sweet smile and a few encouraging words, and he’d almost ruined everything with his presence there, because Connor-

Connor had hesitated. 

He’d looked at him, standing there with a gun to his head, and he had stopped. Hank knew that somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind he’d spared a thought to give everything up because he was there, because he could get killed, and.

It’s too much to think about, specially with him right there, staring up at him with big doe eyes, his twin image dead and bleeding on the floor.

Hank tries to brush it off. He really does.

It doesn’t really work.

* * *

He can’t help himself. 

The revolution succeeded. Jericho won and their change upon the world had only just begun, the consequences of their actions still nowhere to be seen in their full splendor, and Connor… Connor, beautiful, terrifyingly accomplished Connor, stands there in front of him.

So Hank can’t help himself. He can’t help but to step forward to gather him in his arms, to pull him until they are flush together in a hug where he tries to somehow convey how damn much he means to him.

He can’t erase Connor’s lopsided smile from his mind, can’t stop thinking about the pleased surprise in his face as he hugs him, of how easily he’d accepted him, how readily he’d leaned into the hug, both his hands coming up to hold him, his face leaning just _so_ to hide himself in the crook of his neck, to breathe there and tickle him with his warm, false breath.

“I bet that didn’t go how you thought it would, huh?”

Connor lets out a surprised laugh, a tiny little thing that shakes his frame, his body tensing and his strong, lean arms squeezing Hank a little bit as he does so.

“No, it did not.”

“What are you going to do now, then?” 

Hank fears his answer, but wants one nonetheless. The kid has the entire world ahead of him and his possibilities are endless with him so smart and brilliant that anything that he’d cared to try Hank is sure he’d succeed.

He’s probably going to go away, join Markus, do something for himself, for Jericho, for the revolution, but instead he shrugs a little bit and goes:

“I suppose that I’m going live the life I want for myself.” 

“And what do you want?” Hank sounds a little bit winded— a little bit out of breath, because he dreads the answer. His throat works desperately to keep everything down as he starts to get dizzy with a rush of emotions he hasn’t felt in years. 

It’s like seeing after being blinded and he’s _terrified._

Connor hums and his lips accidently graze against him, warm against his neck, and Hank’s heart stops for as second. There’s too many emotions inside him, too many to be named, specially after feeling numb for so long.

He wonders, and fears, and thinks of asking several different things on top of the question he’s just asked.

_Why are you like this?_

_What have you done to me?_

_Why do you feel so good between my arms?_

_When are you going to leave them?_

_Where will you go?_

_Why does it feel like you belong here, with me— why do I want you to?_

Why, why, why. 

If Connor notices his internal war he does not say anything. He inhales as he pulls away a little bit, his arms gently lowering from Hank’s back to give him a little space. His eyes are wide as if he were afraid to say his answer.

Hank can see it in his eyes and he’s sure, so sure that Connor is going away forever, that he’s slipping from between his arms to never be seen again, because he knows himself to be lacking and not worthy of whatever great things Connor will want, now.

“I’d like-” Connor starts, lowering his eyes to stare at their feet. He inhales another shaky, undecided breath. “No. I _want_ to stay with you, Hank.”

Hank’s heart stutters in his chest and he can’t help but to stare, tensing in Connor’s arms and doing his best not to flip at him, not to scream and send him away because his priorities are clearly not right. 

It’d be unfair and cruel of him to suggest that he might not know what he’s talking about, considering that the whole world is reeling at the simple idea that androids might even want at all, that they might be more than just their programming and their protocols.

So, Connor _must_ know. He must, and he must still want him, somehow.

“Are you, uh. Are you sure about that?”

Connor looks up, and there’s something close to sadness in his eyes, something that Hank doesn't want to acknowledge because the implications of it are far too much for him to deal with right now.

“Very.” He smiles, and there’s clear, warm affection in his eyes steadily taking over the sadness. “I want to stay in the DPD and help there, and... I want to be your partner, Hank. For real this time.”

Hank is very quiet for a second, and before he can say anything, Connor quickly adds. “If you’ll have me, of course.”

 _If he’ll_ \- Hank makes a noise, something between a laugh and a sound of genuine hurt, because nothing in his life is that good anymore. It hurts because he can’t possibly refuse Connor, standing there between his arms and representing the good that he’s secretly been waiting for, the good that he feels completely undeserving to have.

He’s a drunk and a jerk, a selfish bastard that in the last three years of his life has done every possible thing to destroy what little he had left, so what’s a little bit more selfishness?

Just a little more.

“Yeah,” He nods, trying not to cry at the sight of Connor’s radiant little smile, at the way his entire face lights up with happiness. “Let’s do that.”

And he leaves it at that.

* * *

Connor fits into his life like a puzzle piece that he’s been missing.

Hank should really question it more, but from the very start the progression of their relationship had been natural and ever evolving, the week where they met changing their lives forever, turning Hank from someone who could barely stand Connor to a man who was ready to lay down his life for him, for his cause.

For the androids’.

They went through so much in so little time that they adapt to everything quickly, to one another, and—

And their relationship changes with it.

Hank is nothing special, nothing good, and yet Connor treats him like he’s worth something, like he matters, and Hank really wants to believe him. He really wants to believe he’s deserving of these things, both big and small, that Connor does for him.

And if he’s right and he really isn't deserving, he tries to be. It’s hard, because he feels like he doesn’t have much to offer in return, but he does his best to repay him, somehow. 

He tries to be nicer, to do better. He starts with small things, the very first day that Connor had told him that he wanted _him._ He can’t get to open the door to Cole’s old room, but he _does_ offer him his couch to stay in, because he dreads the thought of him staying god knows where.

Connor takes it, the smile in his face so bright and so sincere that it twists Hank’s insides until they hurt. 

And because he can’t resist him, he mostly lets him do as he pleases, and tries to have patience with his never ending questions about him, his life— as if he were somehow interesting.

That same week he indulges him and lets him use his old band t-shirts that no longer fit him so he can lounge in his home, until he realizes that Connor obviously doesn’t have anything else to wear, no spares because he can’t go back to Cyberlife. So, as soon as things go back to a semblance of normalcy and Detroit starts functioning again, Hank gets him out and buys him clothes, actual decent clothes, so Connor can finally ditch his dreadful CyberLife uniform, and endures all the hours that Connor takes over deciding what’s best for him.

He also doesn’t complain when instead of using all of his clothes back at their home, Connor continues stealing his shirts.

“They look nicer on you anyways,” he confesses one drunken night, and he pretends he doesn’t notice how Connor’s cheeks blush a lovely cerulean blue.

* * *

It’s been a month already and Hank can’t pinpoint the exact moment that changed everything, that second between them that had made him look at Connor in a different lightbut he’s grateful for it nonetheless, whichever it may be.

Hank cares about Connor, and Connor… Connor clearly cares about him— he’s just not shy about it.

He pesters him about his eating habits, about his alcohol intake, about him sleeping when he’s ought to, about every little thing that could improve his life, but.

He also convinces him to let him cook dinner every once in a while, and he takes care of him when he’s too drunk to function, when he’s too sad to even want to live— he holds him close and runs his slim fingers through his hair, he kisses his forehead when he thinks he’s too drunk to remember.

He gets him to bed and makes sure he makes it through the night.

Things escalate from there, quickly reaching a point that they cannot ignore, because Hank is touch starved and practically melts under Connor's touch each time they are together, and it’s… noticeable. 

It shows in the way his body tenses one night where they are watching a movie together and Connor moves closer to him because Sumo, curse his dog, has jumped on the sofa and he needs space. 

Connor notices, because of course he does— it’s a miracle that he hasn’t mentioned anything sooner.

“Is this alright, Lieutenant?” His voice is soft and soothing, and Hank freezes against him, carefully turning his head to stare at him, realizing he’s much closer than he thought he would be.

He also realizes how his hands anxiously play with Sumo’s fur as he waits for his answer. _As if it mattered_.

“Yeah, it’s- it’s alright,” he gets out, avoiding Connor’s gaze to try and continue watching the film. It’s not a lie, because it really is alright with him. Maybe too much, but Connor doesn’t need to know that.

He also doesn’t need to know how his pulse quickens when he shuffles closer still and cranes his neck so he can rest his head on top of his shoulder.

He does, apparently, because Connor takes it up to be more casually affectionate with him. Walks shoulder to shoulder, sits closely on the sofa with him, holds him for longer whenever Hank gets his defenses low enough.

Still, not all weeks are good.

He still gets piss drunk on the nights he hates himself the most, and most of the time that’s done in the privacy of his own bedroom, but there are occasions where his self hatred is loud and hurtful and all over the place.

The worse that it ever gets happens a month and a half into Connor’s stay.

It’s a series of escalations of things: 

Waking up feeling already low and sad and worthless, nothing in particular to have brought it on but the truth of what he knows himself to be. 

Accidentally knocking down Cole’s picture as he moves around the house and having to pick him up and put him back where he belongs, just a picture, a picture the only thing that he’s been for the past three years besides being dead and gone and _buried._

Having to see his own old and tired face in the mirror and hating himself for ever allowing himself to live enough to get to that point, of staring at his own gut in the tub and hating the way that he looks, hating the way his body has gone to waste.

It’s Connor’s small, disappointed face later that day when he moves to hold his arm as he’s saying something and Hank shying away from his touch.

It’s all of that and more, it’s his entire fucking life, so that afternoon he ignores everyone at work and ignores Connor when the day is over and they go back home.

He knows he’s falling back to his bad habits and that only makes it worse, because he’s seeing himself _fucking up_ _again_ and he’s not doing anything to stop himself. It makes him think, as he quietly closes the door of his room, that maybe he just doesn’t want to stop.

Maybe he’s always been this bad and now he’s just run out of excuses to stop himself.

He can hear Connor pacing in the house, moving things around and doing the dishes, probably to keep himself busy—he worries so much about him, and the thought of it makes him sick before he’s even had a drink.

It definitely pushes him to open and begin drinking the hidden bottle of scotch he’s saved for such occasions. 

Outside, Connor paces and paces and _paces_ until he’s probably burned the rug under his feet, and Hank can hear him talking to Sumo. He can’t quite make out the words in what’s beginning to be a drunken stupor, but he can understand the tone he’s speaking in: it’s worried and quiet and understanding, as if he somehow were trying to talk with Sumo and understand the how’s and why’s of Hank’s mind, of his depression, of his hate.

Hank is partially through the bottle when he hears Connor whistle and jangle Sumo’s leash, the scramble of the Saint Bernard’s nails on the floor and the front door closing.

The house is quiet now, both of them gone to take a walk. And it’s probably for the best that they go, considering how Hank is.

They _should_ go. Go away for real.

Why haven’t they, yet? God knows they’d be better without him. Sumo would have someone to care after him, someone who cared enough to move and take him out whenever he needed, to love him best, and Connor—

God, Connor deserves _so_ much, and there’s nothing that Hank can ever give him that’ll fit the bill of what he deserves.

Hank will never be able to give Connor anything truly worthy of him, of his brightness and his beautiful mind; he’ll never be able to give him anything that even dares to resemble the inherent goodness that Connor holds inside of himself. 

He wipes his hand through his face and finds wetness there, and he’s so drunk that he doesn’t even remember when he started crying.

Hank feels like screaming. At what, he doesn’t know, but there’s something lodged deep in his chest, threatening to claw its way out and tear everything apart when it does. 

He doesn’t know how to stop it, how to stop himself, and so he drinks long gulps from the bottle and hopes that eventually he’ll be able to drown it out, hopes that the alcohol burning in his gut will kill whatever lurks inside him.

It’s a slippery slope from there, and before he knows it the bottle is empty and Connor is not home yet, he’s nowhere to be seen, and he’s definitely not there to hear him opening the safe in his closet and taking his old revolver out. He reaches around blindly and grabs a bunch of bullets as well. Fuck gun safety, he thinks. Keeping the gun and bullets separated with no kid in the house? Hah. 

He stares at the gun in his hand long and hard as he sits in his bed, the mattress dipping with his weight— another thing he hates.

He considers it, but there’s not much space in his head for actually considering things, being as drunk as he is, so he just pops the empty cylinder out and puts two bullets there in random chambers before closing it with a careless, clumsy push of his fingers. He spins it once, twice, before taking the gun to his head and pulling the trigger.

Nothing happens.

Two chances out of six, a 33.3% percent of him dying and _nothing_ happens. 

It could’ve happened, if he were brave enough to put one bullet in and not spin, or if he would just fill the entire cylinder and bite it like he’s meant to, but he’s not brave enough to try.

A fuck up, a coward through and through.

He spins the chamber again, and the door to his room is busted open in one go as Connor shoulders his way to the room, wild eyed and shaking, his LED a shining, spinning red. 

He’s on top of Hank in a second, tumbling and climbing into his lap as his left hand reaches for the gun, pulling the barrel away from their bodies in one smooth motion, his grasp firm and steady as he refuses to let go, his right hand firmly on top of the frame with the thumb jammed in front of the hammer.

Hank makes a pitiful choked sound as he loses balance with Connor on top of him. He attempts to fight him, to get him off himself, to wrestle his way through their arms to try and pull the gun towards himself again.

Connor is trembling, and Hank looks up from their tangled hands to find him sobbing for the first time in his life.

“You _IDIOT,”_ the brunet yells, terrified of the could have beens. Fat tears drop down his cheeks, and Hank feels like he could asphyxiate with the immovable weight of his frame and his judgement on top of him.

“Fuck, _please…_ ” He begs, pulling on their hands and feeling the recognizable pull of dread inside of him. “Let fucking go, Connor.”

He struggles against him, against Connor, against what he feels. He struggles against everything, wishing for his death and hating himself for having failed again.

Connor doesn’t bulge. 

“What were you _thinking_?” His chest heaves and a broken, staticky sound leaves his parted mouth. It’s a tinny, synthetic hiccup, his grief and pain clear across his features. “What- what- what would Sumo do after losing _you_ as well?”

Hank can’t believe his words. He bucks underneath him— anger bubbling up with fervor in his chest to take over the emptiness— before trying to kick Connor off of him.

“Fuck you! You don’t get to say that!”

“What would _I DO,_ Hank?” Connor inhales, the sound of a sob broken inside of him, his voice box stuttering with his emotions. “What the fuck would I do?”

He’s heaving now, the red of his LED stuttering in an angry, terrified red. 

His hands tense and whirr and the gun he gun cracks under their strength, the pressure strong enough to dissolve and break away the synthetic material of his skin, deactivating and showing the white and grey of his chassis. He presses again and the high grade silicone and plastics of his right palm break in spidery cracks as the gun crumbles between his fingers, broken beyond all usability.

Everything inside Hank stops for a second, and he can only focus in Connor’s broken hand.

He’d done that, he’d made him do that, he’d fucked up, he’d ruined it, he’d—

Connor wails on his lap as he drops the gun in bits and pieces to the floor, moving to loop both his arms around Hank’s neck and hold him close, his tears clinging to his jaw to finally fall in thick droplets over Hank’s messy hair.

Just like that, all his energy, all his anger, are zapped from him.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, drunk and filled with regret. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry…” He wraps his arms around Connor’s shaky frame and pulls him as close as he can. Everything swims in his head, and when he closes his eyes he feels actually worse, but he can’t move. He won’t.

“Connor-” He hiccups. Oh, fuck everything. “Con, I’m so sorry.”

Connor cries, and cries, and cries, one of his hands tangled in Hank’s hair, the other blindly grabbing his shoulder.

“Hank- I can’t…” He gets out, his voice bordering on garbled panic. “Hank, Hank-”

Hank pulls away a little bit to try and stare at him, at the red, pulsing light in his forehead. He doesn’t have anything to say, he doesn’t know what could possibly work, so he holds him instead, lets himself be held as he hides his face in Connor’s chest, while his own aches and aches, and aches—

He eventually loses track of time, nowhere near sober and too sad to even think, arms gone numb but still holding Connor like his life depends on it.

(It does.)

Connor calms down eventually, and so does he, but neither of them dare to move, dare to let each other go. 

They don’t say a word to each other, maybe because there’s nothing to be said right then. There are no words to try and explain or demand or even to try to convey what happened there between them, so they don’t try.

Minutes tick by, and when Hank starts to sway as his exhaustion proves to be deep and unrelenting, Connor gently unloops his arms from his neck and pushes him back against the mattress, and still straddling him he manoeuvres around him, not once fully letting go— to cover both of them with what he can reach from the covers.

Hank passes out in matter of seconds, and that’s the first night that they spend together on his bed.

* * *

Hank eventually wakes up with Connor by his side, right arm thrown over his torso and a leg curled sneaked between his as he rests his head on his chest. His ear is right where Hank’s heart beats, alive, with a slow and even rhythm. 

The door was left open and so Sumo is on the bed with them, too, quiet and solemn.

Connor is staring up at him with sad, big brown eyes and Hank gets the distinct feeling that he did so throughout the entire night. The thought of it hurts and he wants to cry and yell for good measure, but he’s too tired and his eyes too swollen.

“I’m sorry,” he says instead. He means it, too. He moves his arms to hug Connor again, to rub at his back even when his own body is protesting, hungover and in pain.

Connor sniffs, as he closes his eyes and nuzzles at his chest until he’s hiding against the crook of his neck.

“I’ve never been that afraid.” He confesses.

“I’m sorry-”

“I know you are.”

“What can I do to make this better?” Hank’s throat closes a little bit as he bites back a sob, hands pawing at Connor’s back, begging for an answer.

Connor holds him tighter, shuffling closer until there’s no space between them. He tenses, about to move, before slowly going lax against his arms.

“You can get help, Hank.”

Hank had tried it before. He’d tried it after Cole— He’d tried it with his wife, back then, and then he’d given up, or she had, or maybe the two of them did. Things were awful and he had changed with their loss, forever turned into a different man, so she left and he never went back to therapy.

He never considered it again, no matter how much people around him insisted, how much Fowler casually dropped hints and then outright asked, or how much Reed had cursed and humiliated him with _get some help, old man._

But Connor is neither one of them, and Hank can’t possibly tell him no. He’s terrified of losing him, and so for once he’s more than willing to set aside his stupid pride for what he asks of him.

And maybe, just maybe, he also wants to get better. Maybe, somewhere deep inside him, there’s the idea that things could get better. Maybe it’s possible to feel like he can breathe again as he works through the pain that has dragged him down for years.

He’s never said so out loud, but Connor makes him want to be better. He wonders if he can—if he can make him proud, somehow.

“OK- yeah, of course I can do that. Fuck. I can do that.”

Connor holds him just a little bit tighter.

* * *

Hank gets a therapist that very same day, a lovely KL900 android named Marla. She’s kept the LED on her temple and doesn’t accept payments yet because the laws have yet to change in the way of compensation for androids, but she promises she’ll bill him later.

She’s extremely patient with him, but ruthless in her sharpness.

He’s not used to getting help anymore, so the work between them is hard and tough, and there’s more than one occasion where Hank just gets up and leaves in the middle of a session. 

He always comes back, though.

Not because Connor makes him, but because… Hank himself wants to, somehow. He’s resigned himself to keep on trying.

The therapy eventually opens up all the all wounds that have been festering inside of him, brings back all the terrible memories he’s tried to forget, the ones he’s used to hurting a particular way— to make them hurt differently. They are observed, and revised, and talked through over and over again until the point where he dreads ever getting back into her office, the pain of being so exposed to her critical eye too great.

But some are things that he’s never even talked of before, and he’s promised himself he _has_ to try. For his sake, for Connor’s, at the very least. He’s the one good thing that he’s had in his life after he had given up on everything.

For Cole, too.

He doesn’t want to think about it, but he knows that Cole would have been devastated, if he ever saw how he turned up. He'd looked up to him so much, he'd loved him so—seeing his dad reduced to nothing but a shadow of himself would’ve killed him in a different way. It’s a terrible thought, but one that keeps him going, constantly, even in the days where nothing else seems to motivate him.

He’s got to be better for him. 

For the memory of him, he can do this one thing. 

He’s going to do his best to try, at the very least. 

He owes him that much.

But, as he’d been warned several times, things get worse before getting better. There are some days where he’s not even able to muster the strength to get up in the mornings, days where he barely eats and forget to shower for days at the time, but at least this time he’s not alone.

Connor is patient with him, big brown eyes staring at him worry, but with the same care that he’s always had for him, and he helps when Hank feels tired enough to let him.

He’s glad, he tells him, that he’s doing this. 

He’s proud.

Hank is too embarrassed to properly discuss what happened that night between them. It had tilted the axis of their relationship, somehow.

They are both softer with each other, however possible: Hank does his best to make up for what he put Connor through, and Connor gratefully accepts, a shy little smile in his lips.

Still, it’s not immediate, because the damage caused that night had been painful and lasting, but at least they can take care of the physical wounds caused.

Connor does it on his own, fixing his hand in the privacy of their home—under Hank’s watchful, ashamed gaze— with an android emergency kit that they borrowed from the station. 

He makes Hank help, too, so he can feel like he’s fixing something as well as Connor sears the soft pads of his palm back together. It hurts to see, even when the android assures him that the damage is not _really_ that bad, only cosmetic, and that he’s deactivated the sensors of his entire arm so he can’t really feel pain.

“I’d do it again, Hank,” he tells him, eyes crinkling under the soft kitchen light, and the words hurt because they are the truth and Hank hates it, hates that he ever had to do it in the first place.

“I don’t plan on making you go through that ever again,” He replies, a tight knot in his chest. He’s holding his hand, watching as the skin can finally cover the planes of his chassis once more. There are scars left in his skin, little indentations where the damage that was done underneath couldn’t be smoothed over, no matter how much they tried. 

He runs his thumb over them, over the grooves that now rest in his palm, the sole imperfection of Connor’s perfect body. They are going to be a reminder of that night forever, and Hank hates that they ever happened in the first place, the he lost control so much to get Connor hurt as well, no matter how much he insisted he wasn’t really damaged.

He may still think about ending everything sometimes, but he’ll never try again and that’s a promise that he’s made to himself.

He’ll never again be that cruel to Connor. 

He loves him too much.

Connor smiles at him again, that same little smile that he’s taken to when they discuss such things, and Hank’s chest tightens further.

Fuck, he _loves_ him. 

Oh, he can’t believe he almost missed that thought.

For how long? Since when? 

His heart jumps in his chest and he can feel a shiver running up his spine as he realizes what he’s feeling. He loves Connor. Connor, perfect, beautiful, entire too good for him Connor. Hank can’t even believe that he’s dared in the first place: He’s a fuck up, a complete waste, and there he is, loving the most amazing man he’s ever met in his life, one that somehow, against all odds, cares about him as well and has _no_ idea how Hank feels about him—he’d probably bolt if he knew. He should, at least. 

Oh, god, _does_ he know? 

Shit, shit, _shit_ —

“Don’t look like that,” Connor quietly says. Shit. Hank’s been staring at him this whole time. “I know you don’t.”

He slowly stands up from the chair he’s in, as if he did any sudden movements Hank would let go of his hand. His other hand reaches up to brush Hank’s hair from his eyes, intimate and entirely too casual.

“We’ll do better,” he continues. “We’ll get through this.”

We, he says.

 _Oh, fuck_ , Hank thinks. _He has no idea._

* * *

Hank stews on it for two weeks, confused and more silent than usual. He eventually gives in and even mentions it to Marla, who just raises an eyebrow and asks if he’s only just noticed or if has been holding back with her. 

“Maybe you should tell him,” she suggests. “It’s clear that he cares about you, Hank.”

Hank believes her, but not quite. He knows for a fact that Connor cares about him, that’s clear as day. But what if he doesn’t care about him _that_ way? The thought scares him. It would certainly change things, maybe even end them.

He thinks of his lips against his forehead and hesitates.

“And do what?”

“What do you mean?”

“I tell him- embarrass myself and then what?”

“And then the weight will be off your chest.” She shrugs, looking at his eyes. “Maybe you’ll be surprised of what you learn.”

* * *

The second night that they spend together in bed comes soon after that. It’s late and Hank is already in bed, tossing and turning as he usually does when he hears a soft knock on his door before it opens and closes with a click.

He turns on his bed to look and finds Connor as he silently stands with his back pressed against the wood. 

In the darkness of his room, Hank can’t see beyond what the steady golden light that bathes Connor’s features shows him. His expression is carefully neutral and he’s looking down, eyes averted from him as he decidedly stares at the floor.

He can vaguely make out the shape of him, the way that the soft cotton shirt that he’s wearing hangs from his frame, the way that his hands are behind his back. 

How his legs are bare.

Hank’s heart jumps at his sight. It always does, as of late.

It’s not a surprise to find him there: he’s been more anxious than usual, his nervous ticks showing more and more often, the coin he plays with almost a permanent feature in his hand by that point. Work has been overwhelming to say the least, and Hank and his silent pondering have not been exactly helping. 

“Hey,” he greets him, slowly sitting on the bed and squinting his eyes to see him better.

Connor looks up.

“Mind if I-” He starts, before stopping himself and closing his mouth. He starts over, stepping forward until his legs are against the mattress. “I’d like to spend the night here, if that’s alright.”

Hank looks up at him and knows that saying no was never a possibility. He looks down and just lifts the bedsheets with one hand so Connor can crawl by his side.

The bed dips a little bit under their combined weight and Connor shuffles closer to him, pulling one of Hank’s pillows to rest his head and stare at him more comfortably. His left hand extend towards him to grab at his bicep and pull him back to rest on the bed with him.

Hank goes, because of course that he does.

“What do you need?” He asks, as he gets comfortable again. He can’t be more than an inch apart from him.

“Did something happen- between us?” Connor asks in one go, yellow LED spinning once, and Hank can feel the telltale prickle of fear running in his spine. This is where Connor tells him he’s done, he’s tired, he’s gone—”You’ve been quieter lately.”

His hand remains on his arm.

Hank swallows, and thinks back on his conversation with Marla. On the several conversations they’ve had since, and he knows that it’s now or never.

“Been. Uh, been doing a lot of thinking.” He confesses, craning his head to partially hide his face against the pillow.

“About?”

“About you. Me- uh. Us. If there’s that.” 

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Connor’s light spins again, and it tugs at something both painful and hopeful in Hank’s chest. 

“Yeah, you are- and I can’t… I can’t begin to fucking understand why, Con.”

“What do you mean?” He squeezes at his arm, softly, just once. His palm is warm against his clammy, cold skin, and he moves his hand upwards, fingers trailing over his skin and then over his shirt until he reaches the scruff of his jaw. 

He holds him there, the soft pad of each finger scratching at his beard for a few moments before he cradles him, shuffling closer until they are touching. He’s so soft with him, so careful, and Hank finds that for a moment he can’t breathe. 

“Don’t make me spell it out, come on.”

Connor’s thumb caresses his cheek.

Hank sighs, his exhaustion running bone deep. He _should_ sleep, but can’t and he wouldn’t even if he could, not with Connor staring at him like that and waiting for some sort of answer, of anything that Hank is willing to give him, flush against him on his bed, his right hand under the pillow that he’s using.

His LED remains a steady yellow, bathing both of them.

 _Now or never_ , Hank thinks. Things for the past months have been weird, different. They have led them to this point, in Hank’s bed.

Connor lovingly strokes his jaw again and they both pretend to miss the shakiness of his fingers.

Hank holds in his breath just as Connor’s fingers splay, gentle, upon his face. He’s so close that he could just lean in and kiss him if he so wished. He really, _really_ does, but he doesn’t dare to move, too terrified of doing anything that will ruin what they have forever.

“You feel just like me,” Connor exhales, suddenly, as his fingers softly press against Hank’s cheek, testing. Hank tries to understand his meaning because he wants to say something, anything, but he’s lost, the words caught in his mouth, too afraid to reply. 

After the incident between them, he’d seen more than once Connor stare at himself in the bathroom mirror, gently pressing against his own face, testing the give of his skin. He’d wondered what he was thinking but never asked. 

Stupid old man, like he’d understand. Whatever Connor’s thoughts were, they were his own, and Hank had no right to them, anyways.

Connor’s fingers continue exploring, running on top of Hank’s face: his beard, his cheeks again and then to the soft flutter of tired eyelids, to trace the shape of his nose and back down again to his cheeks, to finally settle at his lips.

Index and middle finger press, gently, testing the give of them. And then he does it again, and again.

Hank feels like dying a little bit inside, his chest tight with something he once again refuses to name. It’s excruciating.

“Kid…”

Connor’s fingers tremble and catch against him. Hank mouths the word again, chest weighing more than it should. He shouldn’t be doing this with him, he shouldn’t allow him to try. It’s not right.

He moves to turn away, embarrassed and sad now in equal parts for being hopeful, but Connor catches him by the shoulder, his hold a steady grip that begs him _not now, Hank, please._

“Con, you shouldn’t…” 

“Am I not agreeable enough?” 

Hank freezes. “What?”

“Do you not like the way I look?” It’s a simple question, and one that’s absurdly irrational. Everyone and their mothers at the precinct knew how Hank would stare at him whenever Connor wasn’t paying enough attention. Everyone except Connor, apparently.

“It’s not that, kid, Christ-”

“Then don’t turn away. Don’t stop looking at me, please. Hank.”

Connor moves his right hand until it’s no longer hidden under the pillow, and his neck cranes just enough that Hank can spot a tiny mole that rests upon his skin there, one that’s usually hidden by the collars of his buttoned up shirts.

His LED spins yellow and then turns red for a second. He reaches with his right hand at Hank, scoots forward and closer still until he almost topples him over in his efforts to seek more contact.

“Please.”

The weight in Hank’s chest grows heavier. He’s shaky, so shaky, and it shows in his voice, in his lips, in the way his entire frame wracks under Connor’s gentle care.

He opens his mouth to speak and he hopes by god that he’s wrong, or maybe right, or that maybe he says the exact words needed to make Connor see what a big mistake he’s making by choosing him like that, because he is. He _is_ choosing him.

Hank can’t turn a blind eye to it anymore, not with the way that they are tangled together, not with the reverent way that he had touched his lips just like one would kiss someone. 

“You shouldn’t want this, Con. Not with me, fuck- anyone but me.”

Red.

Red.

Red. 

“I shouldn’t want this with anyone. I shouldn’t understand what it is to want.” 

Red. 

Connor talks about his deviancy, his humanity. He also means Hank— “But I do.” His fingers press again against Hank’s lips as he cradles his head at the same time, and Hank doesn’t have it in him anymore to pull away.

Yellow again.

“I do, and I want _you_. I know _exactly_ what I want. And I want so, _so much_ it won’t let me process anything without thinking of you, if what I’m doing would be to your liking; if it wasn’t, how would you curse?; if you thought of me as well, if you- if you had me somewhere in your thoughts as you are _deep_ in my processes-”

Connor’s fingers press against his lips again and it feels just like a kiss; the same intent is behind the motion, Connor’s eyes staring deeply into Hank’s blues. His pupils are blown wide (—why are do they look so wide? Are they so alike?—). The motion against his lips repeats itself again. Hank’s heart skips a beat. Two beats. The weight of his emotions on it hurts too much, and the love that he feels for Connor presses against him, a vicious, terrible thing.

“-and I _know_ I don’t understand everything yet and you fear for me, fear us because of that, but I _know this._ I want you, you, just you. All the time.”

Hank wants to open his mouth to protest, to say anything that it’ll make him _stop_ , because he’s hurting so bad he thinks this is it, this is what kills him.

“I want other things too,” he continues, before Hank has a chance to interrupt him. “I want so much, and so much more than I don’t know yet, but I also know I want you.”

The yellow LED turns, steady. 

It shouldn’t hurt this bad. 

It shouldn’t feel like his chest is being split open, heart thrumming red and nasty in Connor’s hands, hurt by the softness of his words. Hurt by how _much_ he wants them when he knows them to be real, by how much he wants to understand them and make them a thing that he can learn to allow himself. By how much he wants _him_ , knowing he shouldn’t, knowing himself to be undeserving. 

He’s so tired.

He’s so tired and he wants him so, so much.

“Con…”

He moves his hand to cradle his face, mirroring his actions.

“What is it? Tell me, _please._ ”

He inhales and it sounds something close to a sob, even when there are no tears in his eyes. 

“I’ve been- uh. Shit, fuck.” He breathes, trying to get his bearings somehow. “I’ve been quieter because I-”

 _Fuck_ _everything,_ he thinks. _Now or never, for real this time. Don’t be such a fucking coward._

“Because I love you, and uh- _shit._ You are right. I’m afraid. I’m fucking terrified.”

Marla would be proud of him after scolding him for his language and for having no manners, even while confessing his love to someone else.

Connor looks at him with wide eyes and his LED stutters in yellow, once, twice—and turns to a bright, lovely blue. 

The loveliest blue Hank has ever seen. And Connor? God, Connor’s expression is the loveliest thing he has ever seen in his life and he can’t help but to lean his face closer, pulling away from his finger to kiss him properly, because somewhere with his words his caution has flown at the window, and maybe, maybe, he can _really_ try to have this.

Connor gaps, a pretty little sound, and kisses him back, moving his right hand to rest against his chest where Hank’s heart beats so strongly he can feel it, while his left hand moves to tangle in Hank’s hair, to pull him closer and tilt his head a little bit to kiss him better. 

“Oh, Hank.” He pulls away to breathe between their lips. “Hank, Hank, _Hank-_ ”

The dam that closely held Hank’s emotions breaks, and he curses at himself for ever holding back in the first place.

He kisses him again, sweet and soft, like he hasn’t kissed anyone in years, and Connor melts under his touch, caressing his face and gently pulling at his hair while he whispers _thank you’_ s in between.

“I should be thanking you,” He rasps as he pulls away. “Connor, I should be thanking you.”

“And I you-” he gets out before kissing him again, long and deep, the tip of his tongue caressing Hank’s parted lips and sneaking inside for a second to greedily lap at him.

It makes Hank’s insides melt.

“Please tell me we’ll try,” Connor asks as he pulls away. “Please.”

Hank nods, terrified and out of breath, but so, so willing to try.

“We’ll try.” He nuzzles against Connor’s face. “I can’t promise I’ll be… stable all the time, or be the best man out there- but I want to, Con. Fuck, I want to. I’ll do my best.”

Connor nods too, moving to hug him as best as he can in his position. 

“That’s all it takes, Hank.”

* * *

Things improve between them, slowly but surely. 

Connor moves to sleep with him every night, and Hank drinks less and less. Not completely, but he tries.

His work with Marla improves as well, and so does his performance at the station. People are starting to notice and mention his recovery, and he’s, well. He’s trying not to take it to heart, because he’s aware of the huge fuck up he had been.

He even goes to a barber shop and gets a decent haircut, his beard trimmed and cared for. There’s no wrestling the awful style of clothes from him, but still— the change is good, and he looks decent, if he dares to be honest with himself.

It’s not enough to keep his self hatred at bay, but it’s a start.

He still dislikes his body, and himself, but the way that Connor looks at him sometimes— it makes him believe, momentarily, all the nice words he says exclusively to him in the sanctity of their home. 

It’s hard, but he tries, for him, although he hasn’t been able to get naked or anything close to physical with him beyond a few heated kisses here and there, no matter how much his own body seems interested in moving forward or how excited Connor is about it.

Deep down, he’s afraid that Connor will see him with his shirt off or— or whatever, and realize that he’s been wasting his time all along. He’s soon to be 54, and he’s not looking like a _good_ 54 year old.

He’s still washed up, grey, and sagging in places he could’ve kept fit. 

Connor doesn’t seem to mind. He _does_ notice, but it’s in an appreciative, quiet way, and although he never utters a word about it, he tries to get Hank to let go a little bit, to let him in closer.

Just a little bit, ready to take anything that Hank will give him.

He asks sometimes _please,_ as he’s sitting on his lap and kissing him so softly that Hank feels like his insides are melting and he _still_ doesn’t dare.

His increased shows of affection have been happening more and more now, Connor’s urgency to be near him, intimate with him, growing with each passing week, and Hank has been steadily feeling less prone to rejecting him each time.

Connor almost succeeds once as they are moving around the kitchen, Hank finishing the dishes, his hands still deep in the soapy water that he’s using. 

Connor hugs him from behind, arms going around his middle and resting on his belly as he presses himself against his back, his chin resting on the crook of his shoulder.

“We have the afternoon off,” He begins as he kisses his cheek.

Hank tenses under him, trying to ignore the way Connor’s hands feel on his stomach, on how he hates having a belly in the first place. He breathes, inhaling shakily.

“Con…”

Connor surprises him by clicking his tongue in something close to impatience. 

Hank’s so surprised that he actually drops the plate he’s washing back into the water to turn and stare at him, moving Connor a little bit to take up the space between his arms, leaning against the counter and resting both his hands there, away from Connor’s body and his infinite temptations.

“Hank…” Connor retracts the skin on both his hands, up to his forearms, and cradles Hank's face between his fingers, gentle. He sighs, and leans to kiss him softly. 

"I wish there was a clearer way for us to connect, so you'd understand how I feel about you, Hank," He's soft, so soft as he closes the little space left between them, one of his legs making his way between Hank's parted thighs. 

"That you could see how much I like you, and that the things that you hate about you I don't hate at all-" 

Hank shivers with his words, feeling his face burn with their emotion, with his own. He can't bear to look at him, and so he hides his face in Connor's scarred palm, caressing the chassis with his face, moving ever so slightly.

He kisses the indentations there, running his lips against the grooves that have long since been softened.

"That everything you hate in you I love because it shows that you've lived, Hank, you've lived, and you're still so wonderfully, beautifully human between my arms, and every scar is proof that you survived, and the fat that you hate just tells me that you are alive, _so alive_ , that all these years took their toll on you but you're here nevertheless and I-" 

A hurt noise escapes Hanks lips, hiding himself more from Connor. 

He’s always this honest with him, and it never stops hurting in the sweetest, gentlest way. He can’t believe his luck sometimes, how much he’s loved, how much he’s cared for. His eyes are beginning to sting. 

"And I love it, every bit of it."

Hank's breath escapes him, fast and desperate. There are tears forming that he doesn't want Connor to see.

"I thought," he begins, voice as unsteady as he feels. "that the point of this was to get me in your bed, not make an old man cry."

He's still not looking at him.

"Yes. No. Well, I don't know," Connor stutters and Hank huffs, barely a laugh escaping his lips. "I just... Wanted you to understand. I didn’t account for the possibility of you crying, I'm sorry-"

Hank tugs him closer, hugs his waist. Connor follows his movement, dropping his hands to loop his arms around his neck. "These are not bad tears, kid."

When he looks up he can see Connor’s LED turning, stuttering between yellow and blue. 

“Don’t worry so much, Con.” He sniffs, and he moves forward to kiss him, gentle and soft. His body burns with the warmth of his love, of his care, and he tries to convey that as much as he can in their kiss. “We’ll get through this, remember?”

He means it, too, he really wants to get there. He hugs Connor closer and kisses him again, soft and languid and sweet until Connor hums and relaxes against his arms.

“I’m not gonna keep you waiting forever, Con.”

Connor snorts and laughs against his mouth.

“Thank _God.”_

* * *

Connor succeeds two weeks later, and like everything between them, it’s a slow build up of things happening through several days until Hank finally says _yes._

It starts with Hank waking up next to him every morning, relaxed and soft from sleep. Connor greets him with a kiss and gently moves from there to kiss him again and again until Hank is more receptive to him. A few days later, he does that and then moves on to straddle his thigh and slowly rut against him until they are both panting.

Connor makes out with him until Hank grows needier by the second and his hands start to roam Connor’s back, and then he simply kisses his cheek and moves away from him to get off the bed and get started with their day. 

The first day it’s… alright. It’s Connor being mindful of the time they have to get ready before heading to the DPD. The second day is a bit confusing. The third gets slightly frustrating, and from the fourth onwards it’s just torture.

Hank can’t stop thinking about Connor, Connor and his stupid face and his stupid, dumb, sweet kisses that now get him rock hard every morning like some sort of Pavlovian response to Connor and his greeting before he’s even climbed into his lap.

It’s been two weeks of that and Hank is ready to throw himself at his feet, embarrassment being the only thing that’s holding him back from actually doing it. 

But at least he knows that he now feels ready to try. He’s ready and he’s desperate and so head over heels in love with Connor that his want for him is so much more stronger.

So when the three of them—Hank and Connor sitting side to side, Sumo sprawled all over them, his body on Connor’s lap and his head on Hanks’— sit to watch a movie that afternoon and Connor keeps stealing glances at him, he can’t resist himself.

“What is it, Con?”

“I’ve been thinking,” Connor begins, smiling that beautiful, lopsided smile of his.

“Oh, no.” Replies Hank. It makes Connor huff out a laugh.

“I’ve been thinking- ah, sorry, Sumo, I want to be here now-” He repeats, the smile still on his lips. He moves to gently shove Sumo off of them —who just boofs and moves to rest nearby on the carpet— to promptly sit with his legs astride in Hank’s lap. “-that... we’ve been together for a _while_ now, Hank, and each time that things go slightly beyond kissing, you pull me away.”

Hank moves his hands to hold Connor’s hips and he’s rewarded with the android slowly rocking his hips. He shakes, pleased and surprised, and his dick goes from 0 to _completely fucking interested_ in half a second. It makes him squirm under Connor, who immediately notices and smiles wider.

Hank averts his eyes, feeling weak and wanting to be weaker still.

"By human standards this is... Rare, from what I've researched- and for me, it's been..." He stares at Hank, looking for his eyes, trying to make him stare back. He sighs a little bit and moves to kiss the corner of his mouth, mechanically breathing the same air as him. “Challenging. Extremely challenging."

He kisses him again, and again, gently coaxing Hank to finally kiss him back. Hank won’t resist him this time, and so he kisses him back. Connor lets out a pleased hum when he does and he starts gyrating his hips in tandem of their kiss, grinding against him in reward for his compliance.

“You sure you want this?” He can’t help but ask. You sure you want _me,_ he means, but he doesn’t dare get those words out without risking Connor’s—and Marla’s— wrath. His voice is only a murmur, but Connor can perfectly pick it up. 

He squirms on his lap in reply. “I am in fact, very, _very_ capable of want. Excruciatingly so, as of late. I believe people called it _deviancy?_ ”

“I didn’t mean _that-_ ” Hank tries to get out, but Connor just laughs at him, softly, before kissing him in the mouth.

“I know. What did you mean, Hank?”

"That..." Hank sighs. "That you... You look like perfect and beautiful and I'm..." One of his hands leaves momentarily Connor’s hips to make a vague motion in the air, as if that were explanation enough. He looks away, trying to get his bearings.

Connor's light spins, turns momentarily to yellow. He tilts his head to one side, staring.

"And you are what, Hank?"

"Nothing of the fucking sort, Connor." Even with the curse, his voice is subdued. He still refuses to meet his gaze. 

"Well, Hank, all the _fucking_ sort, since you are exactly my type."

Hank scoffs and Connor probably can't tell if it's because of his curse, his statement, or both. It’s both. 

"Fat fucking chance." He laughs at his own words and his unintentional pun. 

Connor’s light spins yellow again, and instead of saying anything that can makes their discussion go further he chooses go kiss him again, harder this time. He hums into the kiss and parts his lips so he can lick at his him as he presses more of his body against Hank’s to rocks their hips together, leaning his weight against him until his back has hit the backrest. 

Connor pulls away slightly to look at him, lips parted and shiny from their kiss.

"I thought- at first- when I looked at you, I couldn't stop. I thought it was just my newfound ability to think, but. When _liking someone_ got brought up, I looked at you. At men like you, similar height, weight, hair colour. When I discovered that... Pornographic material interested me as well, I ended up looking at men like you."

He kisses him again, heavier and insistent, slipping his tongue between Hank’s parted lips and licking the roof of his mouth. Hank makes a choked off noise, something between a moan and a gasp. This is completely new information, and he’s too distracted to think about Connor looking at pornography of all things.

"And even though they were someone else, Hank," He kisses him again, "-I thought-" and again. "-of you."

Hank's heart threatens to escape from his chest.

"Only of you. You, on top of me, pinning me like they did with their partners-" 

Hank’s pupils are dilated, and he’s looking at Connor with a wild, disbelieving stare.

"Pressing down on me and you, just you, slowly _fucking_ me against the mattress," Hank groans. "and the floor" Connor kisses him again. "And the desk, back at the DPD-"

When Connor kisses him this time Hank doesn't miss a beat.

"In your car-"

"Christ, Connor." His cock twitches in his sweatpants, and he shivers against Connor, moaning out the words.

"Turns out, being able to create thousands of scenarios over and over again was extremely beneficial to me, and-"

Connor kisses him again, filthy and open mouthed, left hand going from his neck to his chest, down by his belly, firm and intent, to rest at the crook between his thigh and his erection. Hank arches his back as Connor explores him, parting his legs further apart and licking his lips. 

"What I want, _who_ I want- is you. _All_ of you." 

Connor moves his hand to directly rest it against the heavy warmth of Hank’s twitching cock, pressing against its shape and gripping it through the soft fabric of his pants. Hanks sighs and bucks his hips against him, once, twice, suddenly feeling too hot to be comfortable wearing clothes. 

“Have I made myself clear, Hank?” Connor asks, his LED turning and turning blue. 

Hank can only nod, staring up at him in awe. “Crystal.” 

“Alright.” Connor breathes, leaning in to kiss him again, this time just a gentle brush of his lips. “Then you are going to take me to bed, and you are going to _show_ me how well you understood.”

“Alright,” Hank repeats, feeling kind of dumb at not being able to think of anything else to say but very encouraged still as he moves his hands to take a hold of Connor’s thighs and lift him as he carefully moves to stand up. His physique may have gone to shit, but at least he’s managed to keep most of his strength, and Connor is surprisingly light between his arms. 

Connor smiles approvingly at him and wraps his legs around his middle, hooking his feet at his back and moving to loop both his arms around his neck and hold himself steady. “I’m waiting, Hank.” 

“Yeah, yeah- I’m going, jeez.” Hank huffs out a laugh and takes him to their bedroom, hands momentarily leaving Connor’s thighs to grab his ass and hold him there, fingers digging against the soft flesh through the fabric of his pants. 

Connor grinds against him, almost bouncing in his lap as he does so, and Hank can feel the insistent, hard press of his erection against the swell of his belly, the way the curve of his ass rubs against the his own barely concealed erection through his own pants.

Hank walks him through the threshold of the bedroom door and Connor lets out a small, hissed “ _yes”_ , a sound of pure victory as he closes the door with one of his hands in one fluid motion.

It makes Hank laugh. 

The giddiness of finally doing this with Connor and his eagerness are winning over his self consciousness, over his self-hatred. 

It feels decidedly good, and Hank plans to enjoy it to the maximum. If there are any regrets, any thoughts of inadequacy— let them come later, the next day, or the next month. Just not now.

Hank lowers both of them to the bed and moves to press Connor against it, not once letting him go. They sink together against the mattress, and Connor sighs contentedly when his back hits the bed. For just this once Hank doesn’t mind the way the bed dips under them, not when Connor’s hands are moving to hold his head and lean him closer to him so he can kiss him sweetly.

He scoots slightly upwards to better accommodate Hank’s frame between his parted legs, not once letting go from the kiss, from his careful hold on him. 

“I love you so much,” he breathes as his thighs tense and draw Hank closer. “So, so much, Hank-” He gasps as Hank runs his right hand through his flank, leaning forward still to kiss the side of his jaw and pepper kisses down his neck.

Hank can feel his cheeks burning with Connor’s words, his cock twitching in his pants at the soft sighs and gasps that he lets go with each kiss that he places on his skin.

“I- I love you too,” He whispers against his skin like a prayer, his lips silently repeating the words against it, feeling Connor’s body tense and jolt under him with each word that he feels. 

Connor’s hands paw at his back, at his shoulder, grabbing the shirt that he’s wearing and moving to try and pull it off, far more desperate that he had let on in the living room. 

“Please, please- oh, _please-”_ He begs. “Hank- Let me see you.” His thighs tense and he insistently rubs his the swell of his erection against Hank’s.

Hank licks his lips and nods once, moving to stand on his knees to pull the shirt over his head in one fluid motion—quickly, before he can regret doing it— and throwing it away from the bed to fall on the floor.

Connor’s pupils noticeable dilate, the black of his irises swallowing the brown of his eyes. His mouth parts open as he stares and breathes harshly through his nose, appreciatively humming at what he sees. He swallows thickly as he moves his right hand to run his hand over Hank’s hips, the swell of his belly, his tongue darting out to wet his lips every second or two.

“I love how you look.” He breathes, his voice hitching just so as he pulls Hank back against him, letting him rest his body weight on top of him for a second.

Hank can feel Connor’s dick twitch between them, and between that and the genuinely hungry look that he has in his eyes— he believes him.

He moves his hands to pull off Connor’s shirt, making him giggle with his haste.

“Impatient,” Connor jokingly chides him, but he’s impatient himself, so he helps. Hank moves the two of them so he can get the shirt out as fast as he can, immediately moving afterwards to discard both their pants, shimmying out of his and putting his hands on Connor’s fly so he can undo it to tug them down and—

He’s not wearing anything under them.

“Holy shit,” he whispers.

Connor smiles a wide, beautiful smile. Hank can’t think of a word beyond _perfect,_ but he knows that Connor is more than that, he’s always been, but in that second— _god_ , he can’t even think.

“Now please- Hank, please-” Connor squirms to try and get out from where he’s pinned by Hank's weight. "Please let me touch you, oh god, I need to touch you-"

Hank chuckles and buries his head in Connor's neck, kisses him right where the tendon stands out with his frustration and nibbles there, worrying at the skin that won’t ever bruise. "Maybe later" he speaks between kisses, making Connor writhe while he grinds against his erection. “After I've had my fill."

Connor moans and holds him by his shoulders as he pulls him up to kiss him with fervour, pawing at his back. Hank returns his kiss with equal excitement, but pulls away to continue. "Considering how long you teased me, well, I think it's only fair." He remarks each word with a grind against his hips.

Connor laughs at that, soft, and caresses his lips against the lieutenant's as he noses at his face a bit, feeling completely giddy and bolder than usual. "So get going with it already."

"Oh, wow.” Hank laughs. “Now look who's impatient." He steals another hungry kiss from Connor's shiny, bitten lips. It's such a shame that they can't actually get swollen with his kisses and bites.

"Please, Hank." 

Hank laughs again, a soft and rich sound that comes deep from his chest. “No, Connor." He breathes, and Connor whimpers, the sound making a complete mess out of Hank's insides, twisting his guts with the urge to hear more sounds just like that one.

He goes back to Connor's neck, dragging his lips through the skin, carefully putting his weight on top of him to keep him still. He repeats his name, a prayer between his lips, over and over, making the android tremble under him, his cheeks flushed cerulean already.

Hank can feel his erection press uncomfortably against the fabric of his underwear, throbbing for attention, but resolves to ignore it. This, right now, is not about him at all.

He moves from his neck to his chest, methodically alternating between kisses and small bites, making Connor squirm, who holds onto him with the white of his chassis showing from his hands and up to his forearms, doing his best to brave through the pleasure as Hank takes, and takes, and takes. 

“Haaaank.” Connor finally gets out, moving his hips to try and get some friction as he struggles against him. He does not move more than that, however, and Hank _knows_ Connor to be stronger than him, so maybe— maybe he really likes this. Maybe he really likes having Hank on top, doing whatever he pleases. 

It gives him all sorts of ideas, and those only encourage the maddening string of kisses that make Connor melt under him.

Hank laughs as he goes down his body and licks at the dip of his chest, over where the circle of his thirium pump regulator sits, mouthing at its shape. Connor writhes and groans when he does, getting out a soft, almost hurt sound. 

The sound makes Hank stop and look up. “Are you alright?” He straightens up a bit and lifts his weight from him. “Do you need me to stop?” It’s a serious question, even when Connor's hands worry at his back, trying to get him to continue. 

"No, nonono-" Connor’s eyes widen as he starts to beg, his back arching a bit as he tries to get him back where he was. "I'm just- oh- I'm just really sensitive-but- Hank, if you stop right now I swear I'll deactivate."

Hank laughs again. God, he loves him so much.

“Alright,” He easily replies, sounding too composed for Connor's liking. "I won’t stop. Turn around, then."

Connor nods and lets himself be moved as Hank pleases, who turns him with ease, as if moving around an adult android didn’t take him much. He makes him lay on his belly, and Connor takes advantage of his position to grind against the mattress, desperately looking for friction, his dripping, needy dick far too unattended for his liking. 

Hank presses against him again, this time grinding slower against his ass, while bending to frame Connor with his hands on each side of his torso, reaching to kiss at the nape of his neck. 

Connor gives a full body jolt from under him and lets out a tinny, broken moan.

"Oh, Hank-" It's not a regular reaction to pleasure, because his skin deactivates in bits, retreating without Connor’s permission, and Hank can see something there, his chassis just slightly different where he kissed him.

"Baby?" Hank rasps, kissing him there again, catching his teeth against it. “What’s this, Con?”

"There's... Oh, oh- There's a port there- For... Uh-" Connor bucks, almost lifting Hank with the strength of his desperation. He can't focus with Hank’s mouth there, his LED stuttering between blue and yellow.

“For what, Con?” Hank kisses there again, this time pressing his lips around one of the edges and sucking. 

“Ah- ah-” Connor makes a garbled sound and presses the swell of his soft bubble butt against Hank’s straining erection.

“Focus, baby.” Hank chastises as he grinds against him, slow and deliberate, before sucking hard against the back of his neck, this time on a different edge.

“Iiiii-it’s-” Connor sobs, his arms shaking underneath him and almost giving out. “It’s- a...a cable port, I don’t- I don’t know- Hank-”

His chest is heaving, and his legs tremble even when flat against the bed, shaking with pleasure that isn’t going anywhere and only increases when Hank kisses him there again, laving the chassis with his tongue, caressing the little lines that run there with sloppy wet kisses. 

“U-uh, _uh- Haank-”_

“Shhh, easy, Con.” Hank’s cock twitches in his underwear and he knows for a fact that he’s never been this hard in his life. For Connor’s sake—and his own— he stops with his ministrations there and slowly descends with kisses down his spine, paying extra attention to all the little moles that he can find.

Hank shifts lower and uses both his hands to lift Connor's hips up in one fluid motion, making him whine as he loses contact with the mattress and can no longer rub himself against it.

"So cute," Hank laughs, his hand travelling upwards over Connor's back until he can reach his hair to carefully pull from there, all in one fluid motion that makes Connor arch like a cat, leaving him flush against his clothed cock.

Connor surrenders to it, dazed with how excited he is.

Hank's left hand dips lower from the brunet’s hips, down to his pert little ass as he moves lower still to caress the soft skin close to his entrance and drag his fingers outwards, pulling him slightly apart. Connor moans brokenly, pliant under Hank's will.

"Yes, Oh, Hank, oh- please, please, don't stop." 

Hank shifts closer, stance on his knees wider as he leans in to kiss between Connor’s shoulder blades while he rubs his cock against his pert little ass, making him squirm and look a little more desperate for friction against the bed. 

Hank kisses his way down his spine, lavishing him with more care than he looks capable of, the hand that was pulling at his hair now moving lower with him, nails scratching at his back until he makes him arch more.

He stares at Connor, eyes heavy with desire and devouring him with his heated gaze as lets now both his hands travel over his lower body, massaging the firm globes of his ass with both hands, dragging his hands up and down from the dip of his lower back to the start of his thighs and back again. 

He presses his ass together, kisses the base of his spine where the skin dips and noses there, making him shudder. "This alright?" He breathes against his skin, kisses again, getting the taste of nothing he can recognize beyond Connor.

The android lets out a tinny "Uh-uh." and Hank doesn't need any more than that.

Using both of his hands, Hank pulls his cheeks apart, exposes his hole using both of his thumbs to dip into the muscle and pull his ass taut. His mouth waters at the sight of his rim twitching, and he wastes no time leaning forward and licking a broad stripe from his perineum to his hole. 

“H-haank.”

There’s a taste there, something sharp and definitely wet that makes Hank pulls away to look at Connor’s fluttering hole to find him slowly dripping out slick.

“And- god- and what’s this, Con?”

Connor squirms under him, trying to press back against his face. “I can- uh- I can- oh- There’s a… a self lubrication option t-that I have. It… activated accidently.”

Hank wants to stay in this moment forever. It’s surreal, and he laughs fondly at Connor’s shy, stammered words. “And why is that, Con?”

Connor shivers and bucks, turning to look at him over his shoulder.

“B-because I’m dying for your cock, Hank. Now-” He's shuddering, spun to hell. His hands bat around for a moment until they finally settles on top of Hank's hand to help spreading himself further. 

Hank straightens himself for a moment to look at the sight in front of him. Connor's back is arched and the lovely cerulean blush of his that he adores now covers his back, the sides of his neck, some spots at his hips. He's worrying at his own lips, trying to keep quiet. 

Hank cooes at what he sees. "Look at you, God." His voice is gravelly and rough, and Connor keens at the attention, opening his legs wider apart. “So good.”

He moves away for a second. 

"Keep yourself open for me,” Hank uses the pad of his thumb to press against the twitching hole, just short of pushing his finger inside.

“Just like that, good.” He doesn't press further, even when Connor's legs shake with want, toes curling at the barely there intrusion that he sorely needs, everything about his body telling him just how desperately he does. Hank presses again, pulling at the wet skin with ease, watching how it's beginning to drip down his perineum and down his thighs.

Connor makes a sound like he's dying. 

"Easy, easy," Hank soothes him, leaning back in to kiss the tips of his fingers, "I'm nowhere near done with you, Con. Breathe."

Connor nods even though he does not need oxygen to keep himself aware. He does, however, need to try and lower the temperature of his inner components, so he obeys Hank again and breathes harshly to try and do so. 

He needs, wants more, and can’t find the words for it, his processes slowly letting go of words to favour the small sounds that escape his lips. Needy, he lifts his hips as far as they'll go to present himself to Hank.

“Oh, baby...” Hank lets out a hungry sound as he lets his appreciation show: he dives back in to eat him out like he's dying for it. 

He presses further now, using his tongue to coax him into opening up for him, and Connor sobs at the wet intrusion, opening up beautifully, gasping with every breath. Hank presses with more insistence, goes past the loose ring of muscle that seems to adjust to him- and fucks him with his tongue.

Connor wails. “Hank! I can't, a-ah- Hank, Hank, oh my god, Hank- I can’t, please, please, please—I’m dying here-” A sob is torn out of his chest. “P-please fuck me, Hank- _Hank- Ha-aaa-”_

Hank’s cock twitches in his pants and he moves one hand to press against his erection, trying to stave off his own need but— yeah, that’s- that’s enough. Connor is driving him to insanity and he doesn’t know how much longer he can ignore himself like that. He pulls away from him, smacking his lips as he goes, making an obscene sound that makes Connor whine.

“I’ve got you, baby, come here, I wanna- I wanna see you.” He pulls at his hips with care, giving him a second to get his bearings before laying on the bed next to him and patting his own thighs. “Come here.”

Connor sits back on the bed for a second, eyes wide and mouth parted open as he stares at Hank, drinking in the view. In any other circumstance it would make Hank squirm and second guess himself, but he’s too horny to think straight— there’s no space in his mind right then for that. It’s impossible for him to think of anything but Connor, sinfully gorgeous Connor, blushing prettily as he moves _slightly_ out of coordination as he straddles his lap, leaning forward to kiss him, sloppy and deep.

“Hank-” Connor gets out once they part the kiss so Hank can breathe. “Hank, Hank please-” He squirms on his lap, hands all over him, uncoordinated and with no real purpose but to show how much he needs him _now_. It’s sweet, and it makes Hank laugh, a deep rumble that comes from his belly.

“I’ve got you, Con.” He moves between their bodies so he can hold himself steady, and even his light grip on his own dick makes him sigh. “Sit back, baby, come on, I’ve got you.” 

Connor scrambles a little bit, one hand moving to hold himself steady on Hank’s chest as the other moves to join him where Hank holds himself. He looks positively divine as he licks his lips with excitement, nodding to himself before starting to lower himself on Hank, and—

He does not take it easy.

“Oh, fuck-” Hank curses, his eyes practically rolling back as Connor seats himself on his dick in one go. It’s— It’s too much, and now _he’s_ scrambling to hold Connor as if he were a lifeline, hands gripping Connor’s hips until his skin recedes to show more of his chassis. He’s surprised, and it’s so, so _good_ that it makes his eyes water. “Oh, Con-”

Hank’s a big man, always has been, and he’s _very well_ endowed. He’s gotten used to prepping people, to go slow and let them take their time, because nobody has ever looked at him and said _Oh, I can take that in one go._

And Connor just went ahead and did it, because— because of course he did.

“Oh.” The android nods in agreement as he trembles on top of him, making a low, staticky noise for a second, eyes wide open as he stares at Hank. He then moves to press himself even further down, parting his thighs and bouncing a little bit on Hank’s cock once he realizes he can’t go down any further. “Oh, oh-”

Hank can’t stop staring at Connor and his gorgeous, beautiful blushed face, at his eyes that have gone a little bit unfocused as he adjusts to him. He’s sinfully tight— not enough to hurt, but just enough to make him feel like a perfect fit, warm and wet and twitching around him. He experimentally bounces him in his lap, just once, just to see how well Connor takes it.

It’s a sight to see. 

“Oh- Hank,” He closes his eyes and drops his head, hands moving to hold himself on Hank’s shoulders, getting ready for the ride. “You are- You-”

Hank laughs again, breathless and wanton. “Come on, baby, _show_ me how much you want me.” 

That makes Connor laughs a little, a giddy, excited sound that only gets Hank closer to coming undone under him.

He open his eyes to stare at Hank before he starts to do exactly that, hips beginning to move on Hank’s lap as he lifts himself up, inhaling shakily before letting himself fall down to fuck himself on Hank’s cock. It’s torturously slow, and Hank takes to help him build a rhythm that suits both of them, hands gripping his hips and effortlessly moving Connor on top of him until he’s properly bouncing on his lap, too far gone to say anything, his LED stuck in a stuttering, spinning blue. 

Connor leans down to kiss him, sloppy and uncoordinated, and it’s all that Hank has ever wanted, because it’s still sweet, still loving and soft. He kisses him back, letting him take control of the situation for a while, basking on the pleasure as he lets him go with one hand to caress his back, his thighs—wherever he can reach. It makes Connor almost purr with pleasure, and that only encourages Hank to do that more, moving to give some attention to his leaking cock.

“Ah-” Connor sobs against Hank’s parted mouth, his hips twitching when he starts squeezing him gently, making a fist over him to let him fuck his hand whenever he lifts his hips. His sounds are lovely, and Hank praises him quietly, peppering kisses over his cheeks as he starts to reward him with a twist over the head of his cock whenever Connor ondulates his hips in a particularly lovely way. “Hank, I’m- I’m going to-”

“Oh, baby, I’ve got you, it’s alright.” Hank coos, kissing him again and again until Connor is shaking all over.

It’s excellent, it’s better than he had ever imagined, and he’d done that a lot. Every thrust into Connor makes him melt a little bit more, and he feels the tight coil of pleasure in his gut twist and pull at him until he starts to get desperate, Connor’s words only encouraging him. The sweet, soft rhythm is driving him insane and he can’t take it anymore, he needs more, he wants more, so he snaps his hips up to fuck into Connor before he’s all the way down, and that, oh.

That makes Connor cry, openly moaning as his hands slip from where he’s holding on to Hank. He falls on top of him, leaving them chest to chest, his hands trying to grab at him wherever he can reach-—his head, his hair, flailing until he finally grabs onto the sheets and almost rips them, pulling at the fabric. He’s moaning, sobbing, shaking all over as his insides feel somehow wetter, twitching and tighter than before, desperate to keep Hank inside of him. His thighs shake and his legs kick at nothing, his whole body tensing and locking for a second as he shakes, shakes, shakes—

“I’m! I’m-” Connor chokes with his own words, his vocal modulator stuttering as he comes, shuddering and tensing all over Hank’s fist, his LED spinning yellow and turning red as he falls silent, body going lax for a second.

It’s too much for Hank. He’s not strong enough to have Connor writhing on top of him like that and hold himself together. He plants his feet on the mattress and slips his hand from between their bodies so he can properly hug Connor against him, keeping him in place as he begins to fuck him with everything that he’s got, relishing in the beautiful, broken sounds that he makes as he continues to shudder and tense, going loose for a second before tensing again, his insides gripping hard at his cock. He’s sobbing, hands moving to hug Hank however he can, mumbling staticky nonsense, LED flashing yellow again before turning red for a second time. 

It only takes him a couple of thrusts before he’s tensing, the coil of pleasure in his gut snapping and making him see white. He vaguely realises he’s also making noises, begging, blabbering loving nonsense that he’s unable to stop as he fucks into Connor, holding him tighter and keeping him as close as physically possible. 

It’s too much, too much, and he’s shaking, cursing— before finally stilling, burying himself as deep as he can inside of Connor, filling him up with his come.

His legs fail him after that and he couldn’t give a fuck, dazed with pleasure, euphoric and satisfied. He slowly lets go of his tight grip on Connor as the android hums, his LED spinning yellow for a while before settling with a still, lovely blue.

His heart hammers like crazy in his chest, and Connor hums before moving to hide his face against him for a second before craning his neck and kissing him right over where his heart beats, his lips grazing the faded tattoo.

Hank swallows.

“That was…” He begins, too gone to try and articulate how much he loved that. “Was that, uh, for you?”

Connor moves, sliding from his body so he’s no longer directly on top of him, moving to hold his hand with his, chassis still exposed, scars still there.

“It was perfect, Hank.”

He’s not lying. It shows in his bright smile, in how his eyes crinkle— in his soft huff of laughter as he pulls on Hank’s hand to kiss him there, repeating his words before moving to kiss him on his lips, sweet and tender. “I loved every second of it.”

Connor looks so in love, and- god, isn’t that something? Isn’t that something, when Hank feels the same way for him? When he loves him so, so much that his chest aches a little bit with it whenever he thinks about it for too long?

It’s… It’s more than what Hank had ever imagined for himself. It makes his chest tight with emotion, and he finds that he can’t quite find the words that he wants to say, so he opts to stay quiet, dealing with the rush of emotions and endorphins in his own way. 

He’s never been good with words, anyways, so he moves to his side so he can face Connor properly, so he can hold him and kiss him as sweet and as tender as he had kissed him, and when Connor smiles and laughs, gentle and intimate, he knows that he understand his meaning.

Just as before, just as so many months ago, Connor feels good in his arms, and Hank thinks that this… this is something that he might really deserve to have. That he can also live the life that he wants for himself, and for once—

And for once, he’s not scared.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys like it. Kudos and comments are highly appreciated, let me know what you think!
> 
> find me in twitter @ [magpieq1693](https://twitter.com/magpieq1693)


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